One of these days
by Misila
Summary: One of these days, this darkness will kill her.


_**One of these days**_

.

Dawn underlines the bruises adorning her skin, purple flowers blossoming across her shoulders, her throat, her back– careless strokes of a distracted painter, all over a body that aches with the remains of sex, pleasure smeared in her every move.

Yosano rubs at her wrist– it's bruised too, sore with the imprint of fingers that grabbed it tight enough to snap the bones beneath the skin but didn't. Just like her whole being every night; but it doesn't matter, because she likes not being treated like a fragile doll, because being a witness to the fight between blue and black is more painful that the force simultaneously pinning her to the bed and bringing them impossibly close.

(One of these days, his darkness will kill her.)

It seems unfair, when one looks at how much trust she puts into Chuuya's ability to regain some semblance of self-control in response to the tugs at his red hair; but as her gaze lands on the knife purposefully forgotten on the bedside table, glides down the purple stains scattered on that pale neck, she sees the man as the foolish one.

After all, she will be alright as long as there is a thread, no matter how thin, tying her to life.

Oblivious to her line of thought, a frown carves a small valley between Chuuya's eyebrows, hand grasping at the sheet in a lax grip. Without awakening he exhales a small sigh, scrunches up his nose before his expression relaxes again.

Yosano grabs her bruised wrist tighter, as if to stop her hands from touching Chuuya's hair.

Watching him sleep feels strange; usually they leave whatever hotel they meet up in before the sun comes up, and the few times they waited until morning neither of them was truly asleep, only too lost in thought to be completely awake.

(They are supposed to be enemies, after all.)

No matter how unavoidable coming back to each other is; only sex should fit in the little empty space between their bodies every night. Not trust, not a warmth that doesn't always speak of searing devastation– and definitely not giggles and shared gazes that sound like a mutual understanding neither of them asked for.

Yet Yosano can't deny, for the life of her, how much she enjoys it, how increasingly hard concealing an instinctive whine when Chuuya's limbs disentangle from hers is; how pleasurable just talking is, no matter the topic. How often she finds herself nearly dancing when she's alone in the Agency infirmary, humming a tango that has become a ringtone exclusive for a single phone number.

It's bad.

And Chuuya is aware of it, has tried to do his part to avoid it too; but he would have to become an entirely different person to solve the problem. Yosano might be guilty of asking him to come to her _home_ , but he's the one who didn't leave right after what he had come to do; little mistakes that didn't mean much under the moonlight but now weigh more than that indomitable ability of his.

Blue eyes flutter open as his hands ball into fists again, blink in confusion at the world half hidden behind the red locks falling over his face. Yosano looks away just as that unfairly clear gaze lands on her, feels it wander down her naked form.

"Oh," he breathes out, fingers pushing his hair back as he leans on his elbow, then instinctively reaching to touch Yosano's clavicle; those blotches haven't been caused by his hand, though. "It looked less bad last night."

Yosano huffs at the concealed apology. Chuuya is fully aware she doesn't want them –not over something she asked for, anyway–, yet he always finds a way to express his worry.

"Yes," she replies airily. "It's called sunlight, and it usually helps one to see better. Didn't you learn that with the Mafia?"

Annoyance narrows Chuuya's eyes as he sticks his tongue out. Yosano grunts at the finger pushing her down.

"Then can we have breakfast now? I'm starving," he asks once she's laying on her back, sitting up to loom over her; she is barely aware the force pressing her to the mattress is gone, breath catching in her throat at the sunlight filtering between his dishevelled hair, gleaming in sleepy eyes.

"First you use my house as a hotel and now you want eat my food?" she counters, raising her hand to tuck a red lock behind Chuuya's ear. She hopes the stupid grin clinging to her lips isn't more stupid than the one that takes up half Chuuya's face, knowing, deep down, that both are equally stupid.

"It's not my fault you called me." Chuuya takes the hand resting on his cheek, caresses the bruises of her wrist with his thumb; the digit stops right over the spot Yosano's heartbeat is most noticeable.

"Next time I'm going to ravage your fridge," comes a feeble warning.

Chuuya raises a single daring eyebrow, takes his time to reply by pressing a kiss to the inner side of her wrist, lips lingering there until his amused gaze flies back to Yosano. "You'd need to know where I live first, don't you think?"

And there goes another mistake from his part, for throwing the bait.

"Right… and I hope there is enough food by tonight."

(and from Yosano's, for gladly taking it every time.)


End file.
